Walking Four Miles When I Was Six

When I tell people I walked four miles a day to attend school when I was six years old and living in Mississippi, they usually roll their eyes and say “sure” as if to say, “I don’t believe you.” My mother and father were teachers who insisted their children get a “proper schooling.” As the nearest parochial school was two miles away from the tiny four-room house the eight members of my family were crammed into, walking to school became de rigueur. No matter the weather condition, my four older siblings and I walked to school – over twenty miles a week round trip. I would have liked to ride a bus to school, but the parochial school did not bus kids at the time.

This was during a time when people did not lock their doors, children played outside all day, and pedophiles were not exposed on television by reporters like Brian Ross from ABC News. Not that I would have known what a pedophile was at that age, as I was blissfully naïve and my parents did not allow outside influences. I would have thought a pedophile was someone who counted his footsteps every day. All I knew was, I hated walking to and from school.

Occasionally, someone in a car would be nice and offer my siblings and me a ride to school. My eyes would begin to caress the vehicle’s plush interior, only to see it drive away a moment later after my siblings declined the offer. I would glare at my siblings as if to say, “You let a perfectly good car get away!“ Especially on days of torrential downpours that caused my galoshes to fill with water, which happened often in Mississippi.

On windy days, I would walk behind my older siblings to school. Their size would act as a windbreak against the cold, winter winds. At other times, the wind was so strong that I moonwalked in place. Michael Jackson would have been proud of me on those days.

I also dodged obstacles in my path. People would walk in front of me on the sidewalk, car doors would swing open as I passed, or an animal would cross my path. Birds sometimes pooped on my head from above when I passed under a tree or an animal would leave a steaming pile of poo on the sidewalk. Yet, I made it to school on time each day.

Upon my arrival, I would remove my jacket and take a seat at my desk. The teacher would go over the day’s lesson plan while I caught my breath, cooled off, dried out, or thawed out - depending on weather conditions. How I managed to do a lesson plan after having successfully completed the equivalent of a military obstacle course (complete with Scooby-Doo book-filled back pack) is beyond me.

Perhaps the thought of my mother lighting a candle at Mass or saying a prayer over any failing grade was motivation enough. Or the potential for an hour-long lecture from my father about “kids who walk to school do better academically” or “walking promotes health and wellness” helped to keep me in line. Whatever it was, it worked. I was a straight-A student that year.

Thankfully, my parents decided to buy a house much closer to school at the end of the school year. The new house was a mere two blocks away from the parochial school. To say I was elated is an understatement. I practically did cartwheels to and from school each day. I learned that one can persevere at an early age, in spite of walking miles to and from school each day. And did I mention the school was uphill one way?